


Picture of Beauty

by rebel_diamond



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Funny Face, Movie AU, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebel_diamond/pseuds/rebel_diamond
Summary: Fashion house Jefferson-Mills needs inspiration. Photographer Gold believes a librarian he photographed by accident has what it takes. Now it’s up to Gold to turn Belle into a model worthy of Paris Fashion Week. Based on the movie Funny Face.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Unbeta’d. I have no idea whether someone has already written a Rumbelle Funny Face, I was too afraid to look. But anyway, here's mine.

“I’m so bored I could kill all of you.” Regina Mills stood behind on her desk, perfectly framed by black and white demask curtains. 

Her seven garment men stood in a row in front of her, work boots scuffing the marble floor. Each one held at least two bolts of fabric in various colors and patterns.

Leroy looked down the line of exquisite cloth, “Whatsa matter with ‘em?”

Regina had put in the order herself. She’d okay’d every design detail down to the perfect shade of ultra violet for a lily to be printed on silk charmeuse. Leroy and his men hand dyed and cut patterns to her exact specifications. It was this kind of attention to detail that made Jefferson-Mills one of the emerging premier fashion houses. Now the latest swatches were staring her in the face…and they were hideous. A complete snoozefest. 

“It looks like my grandma’s knitting circle threw up in here. Where’s the freshness? Where’s the youth? Youth is beauty. I should know, I’ve been selling that lie for years.”

Walter, standing at the end of the line and usually very docile, piped up, “Aren’t they what you wanted?”

Regina circled around the desk. Walter swayed on his feet but stayed where he was. She spoke through clenched teeth, “They’re exactly what I wanted. But not what I need.” She threw her hands up in the direction of the fabrics, “It’s tired. It’s been done.” She stood in front of the blue and tan floral print Walter held, “That’s Chloe Spring 2017,” she dismissed. She took a few steps to her right and stopped at a sheer lilac, “And that’s Valentino Couture 2006.”

Leroy shrugged, “How many more types of fabric can there be?”

Regina gave him a withering glare that Walter and the others slunk away from. She paced back and forth, the men parting to make way. “What’s missing? What do I need?” she muttered to herself.

Doc leaned forward, giving the collection an academic eye, “Pink?”

She grimaced, “God no.”

The double doors to her office burst open and Jefferson strode in. “Who’s ready for Paris?” he sang in an exaggerated French accent. Everyone spun to look at him and Jefferson came to a standstill, eyes sweeping over the prints that stretched from one end of Regina’s office to the other. “Ugh, hideous!” 

She rolled her eyes, “They’re your designs!”

“Really?” he squinted and bent at the waist to better study a linen Doc clutched to his chest. He straightened, shaking his head. “They’re hideous.”

“I know,” she sighed. She tilted her head at them. If she stared at them long enough they might become what they needed.

Regina had discovered Jefferson when he was a single father schlepping away at design school. He was obviously brilliant, but in desperate need of some editing. Underneath the sketches of a madman, his clothes were brilliant and she saw his designs for what they were: dreamy fairytale looks that transported the wearer to anther realm. They could be a turns romantic and street. But he was a classic creative with no business sense. He needed an investor, a partner, to make them luxe. And that’s where she came in. She brought order to his madness. Made a cohesive collection editorial enough to put in magazines and made them cost effective enough to put into production. Without her it was all top hats and ascots. 

Speaking of…Jefferson revolved around the men and the bolts of fabric. He wore a long black coat of his own design with steel buttons and gray collar. Everything else he wore was black except for a merlot ascot, his signature accessory. When he shows he pairs it with a top hat, an eccentricity she couldn’t cure him of. 

He pulled the end of his necktie from his shirt, snatching off Leroy’s hat and miming shining his head with it. The workman grumbled and swatted at Jefferson, snatching his hat back and jamming it onto his head. No one was taking this seriously. 

“Jefferson, we need forty two looks for Fashion Week and right now we barely have one!”

He scoffed wandering aimlessly around her office, picking things up at random, “That can’t be true, what about the stuff I sent you last week?”

She followed him around her office, “Gold started working on the photos this morning.” She crossed her arms, “But it’s not going to be enough.” 

Jefferson threw himself onto the divan, "What can I tell you, Regina. I have no inspiration right now! I’m done, I’m kaput!“ he threw his arm over his eyes dramatically. 

"Well get inspired now or we’re all kaput!”

He deflated, “Regina, you know nothing about the life of an artist or the artistic process.” 

She leaned over his head sweetly, “If you want to keep Grace in private school, you will get up off your ass, right now, and design me some winning looks.”

The door to her office opened again and Gold strode in, a folder of photographs in his hand. 

Jefferson craned his neck, “Gold, darling, when are you going to let me dress you?” he called. 

Gold didn’t break his pace to assess his own pristine three piece suit. “And what, Jefferson, is wrong with the way I dress?”

Jefferson vaulted up from the couch, “Nothing, love, absolutely nothing. And that’s the problem. Every time I look at you I just want to put you slightly out of skew.” He pulled back, assessing him like an auteur. He reached forward as if to adjust Gold’s tie. 

Gold swatted his hand away, “That is one thing I can guarantee you, Jefferson. You will never, ever, see me askew.” He turned to Regina, immediately reading her face, “What’s wrong?” 

“We don’t love the looks we sent you. We are lost.”

He tossed the pile of photographs onto her desk, “And I’ve had my time wasted.” 

Regina perched on the edge of her desk and flipped through the prints he’d made from that morning’s photoshoot. The model pouted, thrust, and arched her back in every photo. Not the aesthetic they were going for. “What happened?”

He sighed, “I told her to imagine herself in the Museum of Modern Art. I got Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Get me someone I can work with, Regina, or I quit.”

“No, you don’t. Who else would let you work in a darkroom and develop prints like it’s 1957?” She’d had enough grievances. She stood up and faced all of them. “Now here this. In mere weeks we are supposed to be boarding a plane to France with forty plus looks. Paris Fashion Week happens with or without us and I would prefer not to be a laughing stock!” She leaned a hand on the photos and turned to Gold. “What do you need to fix this?”

Gold scoffed, “Someone who could keep their overt sexuality in check long enough for me to take a picture of the dress they’re wearing.”

“Sex sells,” she countered. 

“Sex is everywhere,” he replied, disinterested. 

For the first time, Regina’s fiery determination petered out to self-doubt, “Can I have possibly scraped the bottom of the barrel of asking women to feel terrible about their looks?”

“You could make them feel stupid,” Gold suggested.

She was intrigued. After all, she was in the business of making people feel inferior, “How so?”

“Move your focus upstairs.”

She glanced at the ceiling, “The marketing department?”

Gold shook his head, “No, the brain. Find someone with some intelligence. A woman can be beautiful as well as intellectual.”

She thought on that for a minute before shaking her head, “Maybe a different background. We could go on location. Somewhere intellectual. Somewhere with books.”

“A bookstore.” Jefferson offered.

She made a face, “Bookstores don’t exist anymore. A library.” She warmed up to the idea. “Yes, one of those little ones everyone’s always trying to save.” Regina pointed at Leroy, “What’s the closest podunk town?” 

Leroy already had his phone out and Google Maps up, “Storybrooke.”


	2. Chapter 2

Regina leaned her head against the window, reading the sign as they were passing, "Storybrooke," she announced to the others in the car. A second car, carrying her workmen and equipment followed. The cars drifted down Main Street, passing a dozen independently owned shops with names like Granny's and Game of Thorns and Storybrooke Coffee. She wouldn't be finding her triple venti soy no foam latte here. "Quaint," she intoned. "Do these people even know how to read?"  

The car slowed in front of a tan building in the center of town, below an enormous clock tower, with a simple white and beige Storybrooke Free Public Library sign. "Looks dismal enough,” she lamented. “Let's get this over with." Regina, Jefferson, Gold, and the model from the previous disastrous shoot, who hadn’t looked up from her phone the entire drive, exited the first town car; the workmen carrying the cameras, laptops and the lighting equipment piled out the second.   

Regina made a show of stretching her limbs while Gold shook out the creases in his suit. Jefferson turned in a circle, taking in the 360 view. “This. Is. Adorable,” he proclaimed. He marched toward the double doors of the library and opened them with a flourish. An unmanned mahogany circulation desk greeted them. High shelves were filled to bursting with spines of all colors. Even at a distance you could see that most of them were frayed at the edges. The light streaming in the windows highlighted the dust particles in the air. 

Gold strolled past them and into the stacks. It was an old but very well loved collection. He could appreciate that as a collector of old things himself. As a space, there were plenty of windows along the front of the building, but the the deeper you got, the darker it became. "There's not enough light," he called behind him, shoving a book ladder out of his way. A cry rang out from above and Gold found himself with an armful of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Stunned, he looked up to the top of the ladder he had tipped her from. The books she’d been shelving were in disarray. He glanced back down at the woman in his arms, blinking at her stupidly. Her dark auburn curls were pulled back from her face. Her left arm was wrapped around his shoulder and he could feel her thumb brushing the back of his neck. Those eyes, made all the more startling by the blue apron she wore, studied his face. Her rose red lips parted. 

"Thank you," she breathed. His arms tightened around her, drawing her face imperceptibly closer to his. Her gaze dropped to the ground, and Gold noted her long lashes fluttering against her soft looking skin, before comprehension finally dawned on him. The surprise of finding her in his arms was only dwarfed by the shock that he was still holding her long after it was appropriate. He released her abruptly, forcing her to clutch at him momentarily in order to keep herself upright. Even through several layers of clothing he felt the loss of her warm body. She righted herself on her heels, “Thank you,” she repeated. 

He took a large step back, a hand genticulating in an awkward wave before he realized what the hell he was doing and dropped it at his side, pretending to straighten his cuffs, “It’s no matter,” he insisted cooly. Someone cleared their throat behind them, a deafening sound in the empty stacks. Gold spun around to find Jefferson, flocked by the rest of the crew, watching them. The girl blushed prettily and put a well practiced but sincere smile on her face, "May I help you?" 

Regina emerged from the crowd, pausing to look the woman up and down, "We have everything we need,” she dismissed. “We’re just going to take a few pictures."  

The librarian’s brows furrowed, “Pictures?" 

Regina turned on her heels, sweeping her arms across the room like a model on a game show, "We’re going to use your little library as the background in a few pictures for Jefferson's lookbook," she announced this like the great honor is was.  

But obviously meant nothing to the young woman, "Lookbook?"  

Regina ignored her question. She’d already banished the book girl from her mind and was now in complete art director mode. “The gown is green and there’s too many red books here. I don’t need it looking like Christmas, this is a spring collection. Get them out of here." The workmen sprang into action, scurrying in seven different directions and yanking anything with a scarlet, wine or berry shade off the shelves and tossing them in piles on the tables or floor.

The echo of volumes hitting the ground woke the librarian out of her momentary stupor, "Hey, hey, hey! Hey, stop! Stop it! No, no don’t do that! You mustn’t mix them up! They’re in Dewey Decimal!” She scrambled after Doc in one direction, “All the books on that shelf are Language.” She was distracted by Walter clearing an entire shelf, “Those are Philosophy and Psychology. Put them back!" She looked pleadingly at Leroy rushing by with a pile of books balanced under his chin, "Please talk to her, it’ll take me hours to put these put back in order." 

He shook his head, "Sister, you don't talk to Regina Mills, you only listen."

Gold took the opportunity the chaos provided to melt into the background and observe, where he preferred to be. He collared one of the men and put him to work setting up the lighting equipment while he went about unpacking his camera. He was here to do the job he was being paid to do and nothing else. He couldn’t concern himself with pretty little librarians and their blue eyes and their books. 

Said librarian, meanwhile, had given up on the men dismantling her library and was displaying her foolish bravery by marching right up to their leader, “You can’t do this!” 

Regina glowered down at her, “Don’t my tax dollars pay your salary?” 

Jefferson, sensing an impending blowup, snatched the librarian’s hand, pulling her into the frame, "I think we should use her in the shot." 

“What?” both women exclaimed. 

"She's dressed like a milkmaid," Regina bemoaned. 

Jefferson, not to be deterred, dragged the woman over to where the model stood, still on her phone. He plucked a hardback from one of the heaps on his way, “Here, you’re selling a book to her.”  

Belle stared at him, “I don’t sell books, it’s a library.” 

“Sush, now tell our girl here all about the book so we can get out of here,” he jerked his head at Regina. 

The librarian reluctantly took the book he shoved at her. The faster she could get this woman and her crew out of her library the better. She peered down at the title. Unbeknownst to him, he’d chosen her favorite. She smiled to herself but then she heard the camera click and, startled, she jumped and looks directly at the man who had caught her. His face was now hidden behind the camera lens.  

“Ignore the camera, sweetie.” It was Regina. “Just act natural.” 

The librarian ignored her condescending tone and focused on the book in front of her. She took a deep breath, “This is a tale about compassion and forgiveness and a hero named Gideon.” She forgot about the shutter clicks. “Many people think it’s a cheap romance, but it’s not. There’s this one line I love: ‘But Gideon was unafraid. He drew his sword and turned to face the evil Sorcerer, ready to save the people he loved.’ Isn’t that wonderful?”  

Regina leaned over Gold, “How are they coming out?” she murmured. He was periodically examining the shots popping up on the laptop beside him. He nodded in the affirmative. “Great,” Regina clapped, “get her in the next dress!” 

The librarian, tracing her finger over the lettering on the cover of her book, jolted, “Next? I thought you were done!” 

“Almost,” Regina insisted, coming forward and placing a hand on her back. “Let’s find you someplace more comfortable to watch from,” she escorted her towards the front of the library. “We won’t be but a moment,” and then abruptly shoved her out the door, shouldering the door shut and locking the deadbolt. The librarian stood there, stunned. They'd locked her out of her own library. She rushed up and down the sidewalk, peeking in the windows but all she could see was the glare of the lighting equipment and camera flashes, so she gave up and slumped against the wall. 

Thirty minutes later, the door to her library swung open and Regina swept past her, “Thanks, you’ve been a real help,” she called back to her. A dozen people followed in her wake and they began packing their belongings in the cars. The librarian crossed her arms and glared but everyone ignored her. She shuffled back into the library.  

She was met with a sea of red books. There were piles on the circulation desk, the reading desks, the floor, and stashed randomly on top of shelves. It was going to take her weeks to get all the books back in order. No matter how many times a patron came in and asked her for “that book with the red cover", this would never do. Footsteps reverberated from the back stacks and the photographer emerged with an armful of novels. He held up one of the tomes, "What shelf for Homer?" 

"880's. Just hand them to me." The anger she didn’t get to take out on Regina reemerged. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” 

“Me?” instead of handing her the book, he crouched down on the floor and began sorting through a mountain, placing them roughly in order. 

She slunk into a wooden chair at the table next to him. “A man of your ability, working for them and taking fashion pictures. It's so...superficial. You could be creating art." 

It was an argument he was familiar with. “Some would say fashion is art,” he replied. She narrowed her eyes, doubtful. “Be that as it may, the pay is good and I get a trip to Paris every year."

She softened, “I certainly envy you that. I’ve always wanted to see the world. I'd be in Paris now if I could afford it."

He took a moment to imagine her in Paris. "You would love it. There’s parties every night, everyone swimming in champagne, and love affairs around corner.”

She leaned on a stack of books, gazing into the distance, "If I went to Paris, it would be to go to Café de Flore.”                  

"Who goes to Paris for coffee?" he scoffed. 

She whirled toward him, “It’s not just a cafe! It one of the oldest coffeehouses in Paris!” she defended. “It hosted Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Picasso! It’s a piece of literary and artistic history!” She was about to launch into another diatribe until she saw the smirk he was trying to hide and realized he was teasing her. “Oh,” she said sheepishly. 

He felt bad for embarrassing her, but not for making her cheeks pinken. He gestured to the shelves, “Which is your favorite?” 

She brightened, “910. Geography and Travel,” she answered immediately. “And the 840's,” she added hastily. “My friend Ruby says I never stop talking about Jules Verne.” 

“Why Verne?” 

Belle hesitated. This was the point when most people’s eyes glazed over when she started talking about books. But his eyes remained alert and on her and he seemed genuinely interested. “Travel. Adventure. And I love French literature. It's the last name.” He looked confused. "French. My last name is French." He grinned at that. 

He rose from floor and regarded her, "Well, Miss French, I hope you get to Paris one day." 

Her heart dropped. She hadn’t realize how much she’d enjoyed talking to him. It was nice to have someone to talk to for a change. She loved Storybrooke, but not many people shared her interests in books and culture and most found her enthusiasm for it strange. They didn’t understand why anyone would ever want to cross the town line. She had naively hoped he’d stay and they could keep talking while she shelved books. She would’ve made them tea. For a fleeting moment she thought about asking for his name. Maybe he’d send her a letter from Paris. They could correspond, like  _ 84, Charing Cross Road _ . But that was a silly, romantic idea so instead she simply said, “Goodbye,” and watched him walk out the door and out of her life. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“I believe I found the answer to our problem.” Gold dropped the photographs on the desk in front of Regina, who shuffled through them. They were the prints of the photo shoot at the library and they were a vast improvement. The books gave the images, and the model, depth.

“You’re right, she looks smarter already.” 

Gold shook his head, “Not her. Her,” he pointed to the librarian looking alarmed as she pretended to sell a book to the model, who posed disinterested and tired. In another, the girl was gazing down at the book in her hands with a whisper of a smile on her face. She looked romantic and beautiful and he’d buy anything she was selling, including dresses.   

Regina gaped at him, “The milkmaid? You’re joking.” She steepled her fingers over the photos, pushing them across the desk back to him. 

Gold had expected the skepticism. He plucked the photo he’d taken of Miss French when the shutter of the camera had caught her by surprise. He remembered the moment when she had looked directly into his eyes, straight through the camera lens, her eyebrows perfectly arched and a little bit haughty. It had made a shiver run down his spine. “Regina, you’ve done aloof, emaciated, and charismatic. Let’s try character, spirit, and intelligence for a change.” He bent over the desk, placing the photograph directly in front of her.

She ignored the print, scrutinizing him instead. Her lips curled into a knowing smile, “This fashion house is not your own personal dating service.” 

Gold shook his head in frustration, “Don’t be ridiculous. I am simply a peruser of beautiful things.”

“Is that what you call all that crap in your house?” she interjected. 

He took a deep breath, “She is, objectively, a beautiful thing. She’ll photograph well,” he put bluntly.

Regina crossed her arms, still unconvinced, “Let me get this straight. You want me to pick a regular girl and build an entire collection around her?” 

Before Gold could continue his reasoning, Jefferson strolled in, plucking an apple off the sideboard and chomping into it, “What’s up?”  

Regina sat back in her chair, “Gold wants to use that thing from the bookshop to sell clothes.” 

Jefferson gasped, "Oh, she's a doll!” he exclaimed. “Literally, she's doll-sized." 

Regina, sensing that Jefferson had discovered a bone and was preparing to run with it, held up a hand, "Don’t even ask, the thought of her makes me shudder." 

Jefferson rushed at her, "I want to make doll-sized clothes for Gold's future wife, pretty pretty please!" He draped himself across the desk so she couldn’t ignore him. Gold opened his mouth to object to his description. “Wait!” Jefferson froze and the entire room went silent. “Wait, I got it!” he straightened. “The idea for the spring line.” Regina leaned forward, anticipating his next words. 

Jefferson whirled to Gold, his long coat billowing, “You!”

Gold was perplexed, “Me?” 

Jefferson danced around him, “You! The both of you! You and the librarian and your future children.”

Gold immediately bristled, “Now wait a min…”

“I’m going back to the homeland,” Jefferson announced. “Well, your homeland.” 

“My homeland?” 

“Shetland Island to be precise. I can see it now; artisanal crafts, woven rugs,” he looked to Regina, who was hanging onto his every word, “Celtic worsted wool plaid.” She clapped her hands. 

“I’m from Glasgow,” Gold deadpanned. “Shetland Island is an entire ferry ride away.” 

Jefferson snapped his fingers at Regina, “We’re going to need Shetland lace!” He lifted a sketch pad off the desk and started drawing. 

Regina, thrilled to see Jefferson inspired and producing for her, sprung into action, shooting a series of emails off to Leroy in production. “We need the librarian’s measurements.” Regina was still doubtful about using the girl, but if it was going to get her the results she wanted, so be it. “Do we even know this bookworm’s name?” 

“French,” Gold offered distractedly. “Her last name’s French.” 

Regina gave him an eyebrow lift full of meaning and picked up the phone. 

“There’s a large body of water between them,” Gold persisted. “The North Sea.”  

Jefferson turned back to a befuddled Gold, “Yes, darling, you can tell me all about it later. Now get out of my workroom,” he steered Gold out of the office, shutting the door behind him.  

“I need to you to get that girl from the library in here,” Regina spoke into the phone. “I don’t know, tell her we want to make a monetary contribution to her little pile of kindling.” She hung up, looking at Jefferson, “We’ll have to drug her to get her to Paris.” 

“No,” he insisted, “true love will do it for us.” 

_______________________________________

Belle double checked the address scribbled on the scrap paper and peeked up at the intimidating double doors before her. She’d received a message from those horrible fashion people who had wrecked her library. They wanted to make a donation for taking up so much of her time, but they requested they hand the check to her in-person. She had no desire to see any of those people, well, the majority of them, ever again. But a public library was in no position to turn down money, no matter who it came from, so she knocked. 

“Come.” She hesitated at the abrupt demand but entered. 

Belle literally stepped into another world. Everything was in black and white, including the lamps, pillars, and furniture. The walls were covered with harsh winter trees. To her right was a boardroom table that sat twelve.

“Belle!” She jumped at her name. The terrible woman who had banished her from her own library, Regina, approached. She took Belle’s hand in hers even though she hadn’t offered it, “It is Belle, isn’t it?”  She smiled, and Belle felt no warmth behind it. 

“Yes,” she answered, stumbling a little as Regina scrutinized her. Whereas the woman had completely dismissed her in the library, now she was circling her, studying her with a shark-like focus. 

Belle stiffened when Regina’s nails closed around her shoulder. “Straighten up, pull your shoulders back,” Regina ordered. “Posture is important. What are you, 5’2”?” 

“Wha- yes.” She cleared her throat, “Storybrooke thanks you for your generosity, Ms. Mills.”

“My what? Oh,” she batted a hand, returning to her inspection. “Does that apron ever come off?” she took an experimental tug at the smock Belle wore to keep the book dust off her dress. 

“Hey!” Belle gathered up her dress. 

“The body’s good. You’ll do,” Regina pronounced. “You’ll have to,” she added to herself. 

“Do for what?” she asked alarmed. 

Just then, several of the workmen Belle recognized from the library burst into the room. A few of them held measuring tape and others clutched handfuls of cloth. They descended upon her without preamble. The fabric was thrust against her face and measuring tape was wound around her arms and neck. 

“Lose the purple,” Regina commanded. “It washes her out.”  

“Hey, stop,” Belle jerked her arm out of someone’s grip. “I said stop!” her voice rang out above everyone’s murmuring. “This is my second and last encounter with you people. You keep your hands off me, all of you. I came here for a donation for the library. I do not need to be measured or primped, I’m fine the way I am! I’m leaving now and if anyone makes so much as a move to stop me, I’ll scream.”  

Belle broke away from the bodies circling her and sprinted out the doors and down the first hallway she saw. She heard Regina’s voice echoing behind her and one of the men hollering, “She went that way!” Belle broke into a light sweat as she hurried left. If she could just get away from these people, she’d never need to see them again. She heard work boots behind her. In front of her was an option of several identical doors. She picked one at random and threw the door open, slamming it behind her and collapsing against it. 

“Didn’t you see the light on?” someone growled in the darkness. 

Belle took in her surroundings. She was in a darkroom, the kind you developed pictures in. All the lights were off save for a few red light bulbs. She blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dimness. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologized immediately, “I’ll go.” She put her hand on the knob. 

“Miss French?” a kinder tone asked. “What are you doing in here?” The photographer from the other day emerged from the edge of darkness. His jacket, vest, and tie were off and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. 

Belle couldn’t help the relief that flooded her. Now filled with curiosity, she walked further into the room, “I didn’t know anyone still used rooms like this.”  

He smiled wryly, “I like developing the old-fashioned way. As long as it doesn’t hold up publishing, they let me do what I want.”

Work boots stopped outside the door. “You check the doors on the right,” one of the men called.

Belle looked at Gold with panicked doe eyes, “Please, don’t tell anyone I’m here,” she whispered.

“Who are you hiding from?” he mimicked her hiss.  

“Regina. She said she wanted to make a donation to the library…but I don’t think that’s why I was really brought here.” 

Someone pounded on the door behind Belle, “Gold, you seen the library girl?” 

She shook her head vigorously and Gold almost laughed at her comic desperation but kept it in check. 

“No, go away, I’m working,” he called out in a growl that matched his earlier tone. The men retreated and Belle relaxed again.   

Gold returned to the trays of developer, picking up tongs and moving prints from fixer to the stop bath, “Well, you see that’s my fault. I thought you’d make a good model.”  

“A model?” she asked, confused. “But...I’m so short,” she finished weakly. 

He smirked, “I wouldn’t take you to Paris if I didn’t think it would work.” 

“Paris?” she perked up. 

“Yes, for Jefferson’s show at Fashion Week.”  

“I couldn’t do that,” she answered automatically. She couldn’t leave the library, her father, her town.  

“It won’t be as bad as you think. Even if it is, you’ll be in Paris. You can drink all the Parisian coffee you want,” he teased.  

An image of sitting at an outdoor cafe once visited by Julia Child, the Eiffel Tower in the background, popped unbidden into Belle’s head. She’d been conjuring similar images her entire life. And when was she ever planning on living them out? “A means to an end,” she offered warily.  

“Or a means to a beginning,” he countered enticingly. He put the tongs down and faced her, “I’ll offer you a deal.”  

“A deal?” she asked tentatively. 

“Yes, a deal. You agree to model for me, you get to go to Paris.” She bit her lip. “You did want to see the world after all,” he added as if it meant nothing to him. “You do a few photo shoots with me, walk the runway for Jefferson, and it’s done.” 

He made it sound like making the leap from librarian to international jet-setting model was something she could do. It was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. Still, just last week she was hoping to get a postcard from Paris. Now she was offered the opportunity to write her own. She’d been safe and sound her whole life. Here was an opportunity to be brave and venture out into the world, which is what she’d been claiming she wanted. She could tolerate Regina and her people for a week. They’d see she was no model quickly enough and leave her to explore on her own.   

“Deal.”   


	4. Chapter 4

Belle had only flown once in her life, when she was a baby traveling with her parents from Australia. But she knew this wasn’t a normal plane. There was a couch and a television for starters. The seat she reclined in was white leather and generously spaced. There was even a bedroom in the back and a bar that a stewardess stood at pouring champagne into flutes and passing around while they waited for takeoff. Even if they changed their minds, kicked her off the plane and her adventure ended right now, Belle knew that between the town car that picked her up at the library to the heated seat she was sipping the fizzy drink in, she already had a few stories to tell. 

Several of the workmen brushed past her, wheeling racks of clothes to the back of the plane. Belle stiffened out of habit, but today they all ignored her. Regina and Jefferson anxiously followed the garment bags. Regina split her attention between her phone and triple and quadruple checking that every piece of clothing that was supposed to be onboard had made it. Jefferson fretted over her shoulder, wincing every time one of the garment bags grazed a chair or doorway. 

“Mon inspiration!” he crowed upon seeing her. “Good, the champaign found you. It’s the only way to fly,” he called while he swept past. It may be the bubbles going to her brain, but she was inclined to agree with him. 

Across the aisle from her, Gold sampled his own drink. He’d declined the champagne in favor of something amber colored, and Belle took the time to study his unique profile. He was dressed in his usual, she now knew, three piece suit. He wasn’t frazzled like the others and there was something very alluring about a man who was so confident in his work. It’s what partly drew her to trust him enough to agree to this hairbrained scheme about Paris. But that also left her feeling like she didn’t know him at all. He was knowledgeable about books, she’d learned that at the library. And he was obviously interested in photography. Yet he remained cooly disinterested in whatever was going on around him. There was a moment, when she’d fallen off the ladder, when he was so surprised she thought she’d finally seen through the facade. She had found his awkwardness so endearing. But then he’d disappeared behind the mask of indifference again. It sounded as if they’d be spending a lot of time together in Paris, albeit with a camera between them. Belle wondered if, on the plane ride back, she’d know him any better than she knew him at this moment. 

She envisioned sitting next to Gold on the return trip, leaning in close to talk of books and making each other laugh, her arm reaching over his to rest on his thigh. He’d angle his head towards her and...a young girl with dark blonde hair hopped into Belle’s eyeline, interrupting her daydream with a start. “Hello!” she chirped. She wore an elaborately patterned dress with a lace collar. She had the exact same eyes, nose, and fashion sense as Jefferson. 

“Hello,” Belle greeted, “You must be Grace.” She’d been given a loose itinerary and it was a relief to Belle to hear that at least one of these people was human, with lives and families and did other things besides destroy her library. 

“We’re going to Paris,” Grace sang by way of response. 

Belle grinned, well-practiced in the art of carrying on non-sequitur conversations with children in the library, “I know, I’m very excited,” she answered honestly. 

“I’ve been,” Grace stated matter of factly. “Papa takes me out of school every year to go with him.” 

“That’s very nice of him. It’s my first time,” Belle admitted. 

“Don’t worry,” Grace declared, “I’ll show you how.” 

“Why thank you,” Belle laughed. The captain came over to announce their imminent departure. Grace surprised Belle by claiming the seat facing Gold, buckling herself in expertly while Belle fiddled with her latch.

“Mr. Gold, is it time?” 

“After takeoff,” he replied. 

Belle couldn’t even bother to be nervous as the plane taxied and the view of the tarmac disappeared and clouds appeared outside her window, close enough to touch. The plane leveled and the seatbelt lights dimmed. 

“Now?” Grace piped up. 

“Yes, now,” he sighed, pretending to be perturbed. He folded down a table in between them and brought out a deck of cards and dealt expertly. 

Belle smiled, opening her carry-on. The long flight time didn’t concern her, she had plenty to read. 

Gold glanced at his cards, putting them face down and picking up his glass while Grace struggled to arrange hers in her small hand. He glanced over at Belle sitting across the aisle from him. He watched as she dove into her carry on bag, hauling out a stack of books that, when she placed them on the foldout table in front of her, almost hid her face from him. Verne was there, along with Madame Bovary and Les Liaisons Dangereuses. She’d brought all French authors for her first visit to France. He smiled behind his glass. 

Belle caught him anyway. “It’s a seven hour flight,” she reasoned. He held up his hands to signal no judgement, reaching over to the seat next to him to hold up his own thick hardback. Belle recognized the historical nonfiction cover. The bookmark was not far in. She noticed it was a proper bookmark, not a scrap of paper or a folded page. They shared a smile before Grace slapped the table with her played hand and he was forced to return to the game. 

Regina had her laptop open and was typing away at a table. Jefferson napped and watched movies on the television. The thwap of cards on the table between Gold and Grace was occasionally punctuated by his deep timbre and her giggles. It was surprisingly cozy. 

Between plays, Gold glanced over at Belle under the rationalization of checking on her. He was sort of responsible for, after all. He could tell she was trying to focus on her book but kept getting distracted by the view out the window. While the rest of them fought off boredom, it was refreshing to see her enthusiasm. Over the next hour he watched her pick her book up and put it down again until land receded and there was nothing to see but blue ocean. 

A few hours into the flight, Jefferson flopped down in the seat next to Belle, “Want to see what your hard work wrought?” 

He handed her a glossy catalog. Jefferson-Mills was emblazoned on the front. It was subtitled Material Girl. The title was meant to be somewhat tongue-in-cheek because the photos were taken in a museum, in her library, and in a cozy looking den. Some of the pages even had text that told a story to go along with the pictures. This must be the lookbook they had crashed her library for. She was shocked to see herself on one of the pages. The model in the green dress was obviously the focus but there she was in the background, pretending to sell her a book. She had to admit that the images were beautiful and it was a creative way of storytelling. 

A story she now had a leading role in, a fairytale that found her jetting to France to nibble macarons and try on custom made clothes like a princess. Where did that leave her prince, she wondered. Belle knew she didn’t need a prince in her story. But a fairytale taking place in the City of Love seemed to warrant one. 

Grace giggled again and they looked over to see her hand over Gold’s, trying to pry his fingers off his pile of cards to see what was underneath. 

“They started with Go Fish on our first trip to Paris,” Jefferson told her. “I think she’s betting the mortgage on our house in poker now.” 

“I think it’s sweet,” Belle smiled wistfully at the picture they made. 

Jefferson followed her lingering gaze. He sat back in his seat and considered her, “Okay, seriously, do you ever lose the apron?” 

Everyone was always picking on her apron! This from people who didn’t know what it was to dress practically. “I came straight from the library,” she defended. 

“And it’s adorable. But you’re stepping off a private plane in Paris, not hopping off the back of an ox cart. In Paris, you’re not a librarian, you’re a model.” She opened her mouth of object. “And you represent me and my brand now so I have the right to dress you like the little doll you are.” That got a laugh out of her. “And we start now, come on,” he stood, motioning her to follow him to the back of the plane. 

Belle thought of the neatly folded, utilitarian outfits in her luggage and Jefferson’s likely response to them. “I didn’t bring a lot of clothes with me,” she warned. Storytime, glitter, glue and an expensive wardrobe did not mix and when she was sitting in a tiny chair, anything above the ankle wasn’t feasible. 

“Honey, this plane is made up of ninety-nine percent clothes,” he gloated. 

Overhearing them, Grace slapped down her cards, “Are we doing a makeover?” she squealed, instantly abandoning their game and joining them in the aisle. 

Gold rubbed his eyes, “That’s fine, I was losing anyway.” 

Jefferson led Belle to the bedroom. With a couch and two large closets, it was nicer than her bedroom at home. Luggage and garment bags were strewn around the room. Jefferson stuffed his upper body into one of huge garment rack covers and rifled through the hangers. 

“Isn’t this stuff for your show?” Belle asked. 

“Not all of it,” his muffled voice came from inside portable closet. “Some are to make Paris look twice, some to make Paris drool, and some,” he wrestled a dozen hangers free, “are designed to bring Paris to its knees.” He thrust the pile of clothes at Belle. “Now try these on.”


	5. Chapter 5

A couple hours later the pilot once again came over the speaker, signaling their decent. Gold heard bursts of laughter, indicating that Belle, Jefferson and Grace had finally emerged from the back bedroom. He could pinpoint Belle’s melodoldic laughter among the others. To his disappointment, they took seats behind him. He’d been so preoccupied with Grace and their annual tournament of cards that he’d barely been able to talk to Belle on the flight. He craned his neck to try to catch of glimpse of them but the high backed seats obscured the group. 

Once they were safely on the ground, the chance to stretch his knee properly was too great so he departed the plane with Regena first. He should have brought his cane. But when he was packing he had seen it propped next to his suitcase and, while it wasn’t an age-related injury, for the first time the walking aid had made him feel old. And so he’d left it behind. As long as he didn’t walk long distances and had an assistant set up any low shots, he’d be fine. He and Regina crossed the tarmac to stand by the two cars ready to whisk them to their hotel and waited for Jefferson, Grace and Belle to emerge. 

Grace, the only one who didn’t seem like she’d been on a plane for 7 hours, bounded off the stairs, “Wait ‘til you see her,” she told them, “She’s sooooo pretty.” 

She was already pretty, Gold thought automatically at he looked to the forms emerging from the plane. From what he’d gathered of Belle’s kindness, she’d probably let Grace paint her face every shade of pastel. 

The first thing to emerged were her legs. Her very bare legs made all the more shapely by the towering red heels they’d put her in. Despite probably not having much practice, she didn’t stumble or trip. In fact she looked perfectly poised as she carefully navigated the plane stairs. Compared to the long skirts she’d favored before, in the sleeveless blue lace dress she wore now she looked practically naked, even though the new frock was perfectly chaste. The new outfit brightened her more, if that was possible. She reminded him of a Scots bluebell. Her hair, which was usually pulled off her face in some way, had been let down and curled so it tumbled down around her shoulders. Presented with the whole picture, his mouth went dry. ‘Pretty’ didn’t begin to describe her. 

Jefferson reached out and nudged Gold’s chin shut, though he hadn’t realized it had fell open. The designer looked very satisfied with himself, which made Gold nervous for what kind of clothes he’d be putting her in going forward. Jefferson shoved Belle towards him, “Take her to the Eiffel Tower,” he demanded. 

Belle wasn’t ready for the jostle, especially on her new heels, and Gold reached out to steady her. He was forced to grip the soft, perfumed skin of her arms. “Me?” he questioned, “I have work.” It made him so unnerved to have her in his arms he had to tamp down the urge to push her back at Jefferson. 

Jefferson was unperturbed. “The girl’s never been to Paris, Gold. She’s all dressed up with nowhere to go.” 

“I want to g…” Grace exclaimed and Jefferson clamped a hand down on her mouth. 

“We,” he stressed, “have to finish the clothes. No clothes, nothing to photograph. There’s no darkrooms to hide in here, Gold. Have fun,” he sauntered off, wrestling Grace into the first car. “We’ll get everything to the hotel.”

Gold looked to Regina, who finally glanced up from her phone, “I’m too busy to care what any of are talking about,” she said bluntly, but pointed at Belle, “Just don’t get bags under your eyes, we have a photoshoot tomorrow.” 

Belle took a step away from Gold and out from under his hands that lingered on her skin. The last thing she wanted was to be thrust onto an unwilling sightseer, “You don’t have to…” she began. 

But Gold had managed to compose himself, reverting to his usual formality. “Nonsense, Miss French. I’m partly to blame for you being here. The least I could do is show you around.” He opened the door to the second car, “Miss French, may I escort you to the Eiffel Tower?” he asked properly, bowing dramatically. 

She smiled and curtsied, “Why thank you,” she played along. She slid into the spacious backseat behind the partition that separated them from the driver. 

“Have fun, kids!” Jefferson waved out the window as the car that held him, Grace and Regina pulled away. 

Belle settled in the plush seat. The driver informed them it would be a 45 minute car ride. Beside her, Gold stiffened at the announcement and rubbed at his knee nervously. Belle remembered speculating on the plane whether they’d be able to connect on this trip like they had bonded in the library. It had felt so nice to talk to someone who didn’t think her strange. At least, he hadn’t acted as though he found her ramblings about books and travel bizarre. Maybe that had been just a ruse to gain her trust and cooperation and now that she was in Paris he could ignore her. Belle turned to the man she hoped to get to know better, “Is the view from the top amazing?” she ventured. 

Gold shrugged, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been.” 

She gasped, slapping her palms down on the white leather, making him jump, “You’ve been to Paris how many times and you’ve never gone to the top of the Eiffel Tower before?” 

He was baffled by her disbelief, “I come here for work.” 

Belle rolled her eyes. If she was given an all-expenses paid trip anywhere, especially Paris, she sure wouldn’t spend all of it working. “You work too much,” she scolded, shaking her head and looking out the window, her eyes devouring the French scenery. 

Something about her disapproving tone made him smile. It reminded him of similar admonishments from Bae. “Maybe,” he conceded. His phone pinged and he pulled it out of his jacket. It was a text. Rarely anyone texted him because they knew they wouldn’t get a response back but his son liked to send him pictures from New York sometimes. Gold frowned at the screen. 

Belle peered across the seat, “What is it?” 

“Jefferson. He called ahead and said we should just go to the front of the line and give our names.” 

Belle beamed, “That was kind of him.” 

“Mmhm,” he agreed dubiously. He believed Jefferson had other motives. Jefferson, who rarely let things develop at their own pace, whether that be clothes or people. Now Jefferson had purposefully placed him in very close proximity to a very pretty girl and was trying to...what, tempt him? It was ridiculous. He and Belle had a professional relationship, one. Two….well, look at her. And look at him. He was putting her in front of the camera for a reason, and not just for her looks. She radiated light and everything that was good in the world. He was behind the camera for a reason. 

When they arrived, they strolled through the Esplanade on their way to the entrance. Looking up at the structure, they lingered on the intricacies of the wrought iron lattice that are lost in photographs. It was difficult to appreciate the majesty of the tower until you were under it. Gold watched Belle as she spun on her heels, never looking down and the soft smile never leaving her lips. He was surprised to think of how enjoyable it was going to be to see Paris and the circus that was Fashion Week though her eyes instead of his tired, jaded ones. 

She bypassed the gift shop completely. After giving their names she didn’t even ask him before forgoing the stairs, which he knew he wouldn’t be able to manage, and leading the way to the elevator. They stopped at the first floor to see the transparent bottom, peeking down at where they had just stood minutes before. They exchanged queasy looks and scurried back to the opaque flooring. They rambled through the interactive displays on the history of the tower, which Belle of course had to read thoroughly instead of scanning and feigning interest like everyone else. If he was going to visit the Eiffel Tower with anyone, he was glad it was her. Not to compare them, but he couldn’t picture his ex-wife lingering over flipping blocks of historical photos or looking thrilled instead of terrified when they found out that the machines that operate the Tower’s lift they road in were more than a century old. 

The second floor offered views of the Louvre and Notre Dame. Belle was tickled to see the Eiffel Tower’s Michelin-starred restaurant was named after Jules Verne. They pressed their faces up against the glass of the macaroon bar, admiring the dazzling rainbow display of biscuits of every flavor. Gold pulled out his card and bought them a small box of chocolate, coffee, lemon, and strawberry to share. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Belle smiled as she nibbled on the strawberry. 

“Wasn’t for you. I’m going to need something to settle my stomach after the ascent.” 

She giggled, “Ready to go to the top?” 

He steeled himself. “We’ve come this far together.” 

Packed inside the glass-walled lift, Gold kept his eyes on the signs warning them of pickpockets instead of the structure zooming by them. To distract himself from the motion, he was forced to focus on the closeness of Belle. Their hips bushed against each other as the other people in the carriage jockeyed for position. She didn’t seem to have the same reservations as he about looking out the windows. Her curls tickled his nose and he breathed in. Lavender and vanilla. Two calming scents he zeroed in on until the lift blessedly came to their final destination. 

They shuffled out to the open air deck. Suddenly, Paris was at their feet. He had to admit, the view was stunning. 

“Isn’t it amazing?” she whispered beside him. Other than the voices of the other tourists and the wind, it was quiet at the top. You could see Paris but couldn’t hear it. The breeze whipped her hair gently around her and, despite the surge of people, she was completely serene. 

He drew the Fujifilm X100F he always kept on him out of his jacket. She hear the snap and whirled around. “Practice,” he explained smoothly, sliding the camera back into his pocket. “You must get used to the camera.”

Belle’s hunger for the sights and sounds of Paris were hardly satiated. They were barely back in the car and pulling away from the Eiffel Tower when she had her window rolled down and was leaning hard on the door. He was afraid he was going to have to catch her as she fell out. He watched her head oscillate for a while before he leaned forward and rapt on the glass partition. They’d only been in the car ten minutes. 

“Are we at the hotel already?” It was hard not to hear the disappointment in her voice. 

“I thought we could walk for a bit,” he suggested. She perked up immediately. 

He led them confidently down the street towards Le Grand Pigalle. She kept craning her neck up at the storefronts, wondering how he know where they were when they were surrounded by tall identical tan buildings. No longer watching her step, she teetered on her heels, tipped and almost fell. Gold caught her and, without comment, looped her arm snuggly through his. 

They walked like that for a few blocks until she was forced to extricate herself to rub at her forearms, “Jefferson didn’t think to give me a coat.”

“No, I’m sure he did,” he mumbled, effortlessly shucking his coat and settling it over her narrow shoulders. She tried to parse his words but they didn’t make any sense to her. 

Soon after he stopped her at the corner, holding a door open for her and ushered her through the hotel lobby. “Gold and French, checking in. Our luggage arrived ahead of us,” he announced to the attendant. 

The desk manager handed them their tasseled keys and Gold thanked him in French. They walked silently through the carpeted hallways before they were forced to split, her room on the right, his on the left. 

While she thought the ice had been effectively broken with their adventure to the Eiffel Tower, he’d been oddly distant with her since giving her his jacket. Just when she’d thought they’d made progress and become friends, he slipped back into his stiff, polite manner. “Thank you,” she told him, “for taking me.” 

He bowed his head slightly “It was my pleasure, Miss French. Goodnight.” He disappeared behind his door. 

“Night,” she replied, and slipped into her own room. It wasn’t until she leaned against the door, the excitement of the day finally catching up to her, she realized she hadn’t given him his jacket back.


	6. Chapter 6

“She’s not answering,” Regina paced in the conference room. She glared at her phone in annoyance as it continued to ring. They stayed at the Grand Pigalle Hôtel because that’s where the up and coming designers tended to congregate. But because of their hotel’s tight quarters, they’d booked the Salon Jeu de Paume at the Le Meurice down the street. The room had a private location at the back of the hotel and an abundance of natural light. Along with the neutral tones of the walls, it was the perfect place for fittings and hair and makeup tests.

If only the model and photographer had shown up. 

Regina put the phone on speaker so everyone in the room could share her misery. The endless ringing echoed through the room as she alternated between Gold and Belle’s phone numbers.

Jefferson reclined among a sea of dresses with his feet propped up on an expensive table. He looked like one of the frescoes that decorated the walls. “Did you try Gold’s room?”

Regina stopped mid-stride. “Why would she be in Gold’s room?”

“Maybe," he drawled, “they have a good reason for not answering.” He wiggled his eyebrows just in case she hadn’t caught his full tone of innuendo.

“Not on my dollar, they don’t.” They were basing an entire look book and Paris Fashion Week show around one, plebeian girl. Regina stared at the hair and makeup people milling about the room. Garment men yawning as they fiddled with measuring tape and thread. Men readying the cameras and lighting, pointing the lamps at no one. Grace was at least enjoying the use of the room. She was twirling and prancing around the room, pretending to be a princess at a ball.

Regina saw dollar signs.

“We’ll use someone else,” she declared.

Jefferson sat up, “We will not.”

The door to the conference room opened and Gold slipped into the room.

“Where have you been?” Regina hissed, looking behind him.

The six hour time difference played havoc with his sleep. While he didn’t like to admit it, Gold was a creature of habit. He loathed these trips they took a few times a year. To him, Paris was yet another city seen through a photo lens and hotel room window. Despite the alarm, he’d woke late and struggled to shower, shave, and dress in his tiny room where nothing was where it normally lived. The hotel was too trendy and hip for his tastes and the wallpaper made him dizzy. He felt hungover in a way he only got on these cross-continental trips.

On top of that, his knee ached from all the walking and he was out one suit jacket. With his favorite camera in the pocket. Yes, he’d enjoyed the trip with Belle to the Eiffel Tower. She was good company.  It was refreshing to be around someone whose cultural references didn’t begin with Coco Chanel and end with Coco Rocha. But it was a classic Jefferson scheme to heighten emotions. Honestly, he  was relieved  when he and Belle  were handed  two keys upon check-in instead of one. He wouldn’t have put it past Jefferson to cancel one of their rooms and force them to share.

Gold looked behind him, seeing no one.

“Where’s Belle?” Regina asked.

Gold scoured the room for a coffee urn. He only came up with champagne. Typical Paris Fashion Week. He rubbed his temples. “How would I know?” he asked  distractedly.

“You were with her all night,” she insisted.

“No, I wasn’t,” he counted. He pointed at Jefferson, “You’re very cute, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Jefferson preened as if he’d meant it as a compliment.

“Didn’t she know what time to be here?” Regina persisted.

He growled, “Of course she…,” he broke off. Damn. He’d forgotten to tell her what time and where the test shoot was today. They were together all day and it had never come up. They'd talked about a number of topics but work had never come up.

“Something else on your mind?” Jefferson asked  innocently.

Gold’s eyes narrowed. “Jet lag.”

Jefferson smiled. “Or amour,” he teased.

“Jefferson,” Gold rumbled, taking a step towards him. He was on too little sleep to be further aggravated.

Jefferson’s feet plunked off the coffee table in case he had to make a break for it.

“Enough,” Regina cut in. “She wasn’t in her room when we left. We’ve left message after message at the hotel and she’s not answering her phone. Where would she be?”

Something was nagging at the back of his brain. But the time change and Regina’s badgering was making it impossible to retrieve. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“It was your idea to bring her here, Gold. I’m holding you responsible for her. This is a work trip. Not a free vacation for her to go gallivanting around Paris.”

His eyes snapped open. “I’ll have her here tomorrow morning at ten.”

***

Looking for her took him across the Seine and thrust him into the tourist traps of Paris.  Non-Parisians came to the Left Bank looking for the romanticism promised to them in movies. Meanwhile, it had all the authenticity of Times Square.  Thankfully, it only took him two cafes to find her.

There she was at Les Deux Magots. She sat primly in the red booth with a coffee tray and the remains of her breakfast in front of her. She was wearing a neon green sweater and black skirt with tights and heels. He had enough experience with high fashion to know it wasn’t an outfit she picked up in Storybrooke. She likely hadn’t picked it out at all. At least it was more weather appropriate than the tiny blue dress Jefferson had put her in last night. Again, the thought that she looked beautiful popped into his head. She looked fresh and bright and young. He was reminded all over again why he choose her for the Spring campaign. He knew Regina’s doubts were unfounded. People were going to fall in love with her.

He was so distracted he didn’t notice she was in deep conversation with the person at the table next to her. The man, roughly her age Gold couldn’t help but notice, loomed over her. As he approached he could hear the man’s thick French accent.

“The most sensible approach to true understanding and peace of mind.”

“Like sympathy?” she asked, leaning her chin on her hand. Whatever rubbish this buffoon was feeding her, she was foolishly eating it up.

His meaty fingers reached across her and traced the stem of her water glass. “It's based on empathy.  Empathy is to project your imagination so that you actually feel what the other person is feeling  .” The man’s spine straightened. “Like right now.  I feel  a hostile vibration.”

“That would be me,” Gold stood in front of them.

“Mr. Gold,” Belle beamed up at him and he momentarily forgot to hate the man next to her. But the man refused to take the hint that Gold’s entrance was his cue to exit because he cleared his throat.

“Oh,” Belle jumped, “I’m sorry, this is...” She trailed off, blushing.

“Gaston,” the man supplied.

Gold ignored him. Something about this man brought out the punk kid from Glasgow in him. He thought he’d successfully left him behind in Scotland. Now he could feel it, flaring up inside of him. It screamed at him to flip over the table and reach for the knife he kept in the back of his waistband.

“Gaston is teaching me about empathicalism,” Belle told him, oblivious to the storm raging inside of him. “Have you ever heard of it?”

Gaston was equally unaware of Gold’s animosity.  “I have no doubt that in less than ten years, people everywhere will know that only empathicalism can bring peace. Peace through understanding is the only real…”

Tragically, wasn’t twenty years ago, and he no longer carried a blade. “Would you mind if I had my own conversation with the lady?” he interrupted instead. He turned to Belle. “Sleep well?” he asked tersely.

“Not a wink!” she chirped, not catching his tone. Hours after their trip to the Eiffel Tower, she still couldn’t drift off. So she’d given up and sat on her little balcony and watched the sun come up over the rooftops of Paris. When she got dressed, she’d found the majority of the clothes she’d packed missing. They’d been replaced with clothes she’d never seen before and they looked expensive. She thought somebody had mixed up her luggage until she found a note from Jefferson. It stated she’d get her clothes back on the return trip. She’d then followed her nose to a bakery around the corner from the hotel and had an éclair. From there she’d followed a tourist map all the way to the Left Bank.

She had to admit she was slightly disappointed. It had never occurred to her while reading her 19th century books that Paris was a modern city. Guitar shops and Japanese restaurants dotted the streets. The city didn’t hold on to its own nostalgia quite like she did. For some reason, sitting in Les Deux Magots failed to recapture the magic she’d felt at the Eiffel Tower last night. She was feeling a little down until the man next to her struck up a conversation. Well, a lecture,  really, but she wasn’t complaining.

“I thought maybe you had a dream and forgot,” Gold told her, disregarding Gaston watching them.

Little crinkles appeared between her eyes. “Forgot what?”

“Your job. You  were supposed  to be at the modiste today.”

She shook her head. “No one told me. As soon as the sun rose I started wandering around and I lost track of time.”

“Did you also lose the phone we gave you?” He didn’t even bother masking his anger.

Belle looked at her empty hands. “I’m not used to carrying a phone with me in Storybrooke. Everyone knows me there.”

Gaston rose, extending a business card to Belle. Gold clenched his fists to keep from slapping it out of his hand. “It seems I have interrupted a lover’s quarrel. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle. I invite you to my club to continue our conversation at any time.” He sent a warning look at Gold.

“She’ll be busy. Working for me,” he broke in.

Gaston stood to his full height.  “Mademoiselle, whatever,” he looked Gold up and down, “ arrangement you have with this gentleman. I can assist you.”

Gold took his words to mean he thought Belle was his kept woman. He didn’t hurry to correct him. If that’s what got him out of here faster, so be it.

“Thank you, Gaston.  But I can take care of myself,” Belle’s voice wavered with anger but she controlled it, aware of the scene they were creating.

He nodded, “I will wait outside if you need me.” He brushed past Gold but hovered by the door.

Belle stood, gathered up her things. “You didn’t have to be so rude!” she scolded him. “I can talk to whomever I want!  Just  because I work for you, doesn’t mean you own me.”

Gold scoffed. “You’re angry I interrupted that rousing speech about a philosophy that doesn’t exist? I was doing you a favor!”

She glared at him. “This was a mistake. I should never have come here.”

He sighed, “What did you think, Belle? You’d meet a man in Paris and live  happily  ever after?”

The hurt showed in her eyes. “So what if I did? So what if I wanted to talk to him? So what if I wanted to _sleep_ with him?”

Gold flinched at that.

She shook her head. “Who are you mad at?”

Himself. He was mad at himself. He was mad because she reminded him how old and closed off he’d become. Belle wore her emotions for the world to see. She was open and honest and too good for the likes of him.

When he said nothing, she looked over his shoulder. “Gaston,” she called. “I rather feel like continuing our conversation right now.” She stalked over to him, making a show of taking his proffered arm and not looking back as they marched out the door.


End file.
